"Can you hear me?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Good. I'm going to touch you now. Not sexually yet. I need to establish baseline responses. Your job is to stay present. Feel everything. Don't analyze it. Just experience it."
"Okay."
His hand settled on my left ankle. Warm. Firm. Just resting there.
I flinched.
"Easy," he murmured. "It's just my hand."
But it wasn't just his hand. It was contact. Human warmth against my skin through the thin fabric of my leggings. And because I couldn't see it coming, couldn't anticipate where he'd touch next, every nerve in my body was lit up, hyper-aware.
His hand slid up my calf. Slowly. Deliberately. Stopping at my knee.
"How does this feel?" he asked.
"Strange."
"Strange how?"
"Like... too much attention. Like I'm being studied."
"You are being studied." His hand moved to my other ankle, repeating the slow path upward. "That's the point. You're used to being the observer. Now you're the subject. How does that feel?"
"Vulnerable."
"Good. Vulnerability is the goal."
His touch moved higher—my thigh now, still over fabric, but the intimacy was undeniable. My breath caught.
"Are you aroused?" he asked clinically.
"I don't know."
"Yes, you do. Answer honestly."
"Yes," I whispered.
"Why?"
"Because I can't see you. Because I can't control what happens next."
"Because you're anticipating." His voice was closer now, near my ear. "You told me yesterday that anticipation aroused you more than the act itself. So let's test that."
His hand left my thigh.
I waited.
Seconds stretched. Five. Ten. Fifteen.
Nothing.
My entire body was taut, waiting for a touch that didn't come. And the waiting—the not knowing—was unbearable. Exquisite.
"What are you feeling?" Meric asked.
"Frustrated."
"Sexually?"
"Yes."
"Good. That's The Edge. Sustained tension without resolution. Your body wants release. But you're not going to get it. Not yet."
His fingers brushed my collarbone—so light I almost thought I'd imagined it. Then down, tracing the neckline of my shirt. Not touching skin. Just hovering.
"Tell me about your last relationship," he said.
The shift was so sudden that it took me a second to process. "What?"
"Your last relationship. Why did it end?"
"I—" My brain scrambled to catch up. "I don't see what that has to do with—"
"Answer the question, Aethelreda."
His hand settled on my stomach, palm flat, radiating heat through the thin cotton.
"I ended it," I said finally. "After eight months."
"Why?"
"Because he wanted more than I could give."
"What did he want?"
"He wanted—" I stopped, breath hitching as Meric's thumb traced a slow circle just below my ribs. "He wanted me to need him."
"And you didn't."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because needing someone means giving them power to hurt you."
His hand stilled. "And you don't let anyone have that power."
"No."
"Except right now." His voice was quiet, almost gentle. "Right now, you're restrained. Blind. Aroused. And I could hurt you very easily."
My heart was hammering. "Yes."
"But I won't. Because this isn't about pain. It's about proving you can survive vulnerability." His hand slid lower, stopping just above my hip. "So I'm going to ask you again: are you aroused?"
"Yes."
"Do you want me to touch you?"
The question was so direct it stole my breath.
"Yes," I whispered.
"Where?"
Oh God.
"Anywhere," I managed.
"That's not specific enough. Tell me where you want to be touched."
I couldn't. The words stuck in my throat, years of control and self-protection making it impossible to voice what I actually wanted.
"I can't," I said.
"You can. You just won't." His hand moved to my inner thigh—still over fabric, but the intent was clear. "Try again. Where do you want to be touched?"
"There," I gasped.
"Say it properly."
"Between my legs."
"Better." His hand pressed gently against me, and even through the layers of fabric, the pressure was electric. "You're aroused. Your body is responding exactly as it should. But you're still trying to control it. To manage the experience instead of experiencing it."
"I don't know how to stop," I admitted.
"I know." His hand stayed where it was, applying steady pressure. "That's why you're here. To learn."
And then—finally—his hand moved.
Slow, deliberate circles. Over fabric still, but firm enough that I could feel everything. The heat. The friction. The unbearable tension coiling tighter in my core.
I couldn't stop the sound that escaped—half gasp, half moan.
"There," Meric said quietly. "That's real. That's what I need to hear."
His other hand slid under my shirt, palm flat against my stomach, holding me still as he continued the maddening, perfect pressure between my legs.
"I'm going to bring you to the edge," he said. "But I'm not going to let you climax. Not tonight. This session is about frustration tolerance. About learning to exist in a state of arousal without needing to escape it."
"That's cruel," I gasped.
"No. It's necessary." The pressure increased slightly. "Your arousal pattern requires anticipation. Delayed gratification. So I'm giving you exactly what you need—and withholding what you want."
I was shaking now, my hips lifting involuntarily, seeking more friction, more pressure, more of anything that would break the unbearable tension.
"Stay still," he commanded.
I tried. I couldn't.
"Aethelreda." His voice was firm. "If you can't stay still, I'll stop entirely."
That threat—the possibility of losing even this maddening half-contact—was enough. I forced my body to stillness, every muscle locked with effort.
"Good," he murmured. "That's control. Real control. Not managing the world around you. Managing yourself."
His hand moved faster now, the circles tighter, more focused. I could feel the orgasm building—inevitable, overwhelming, so close I could taste it—
And then he stopped.
Completely.
Both hands gone, leaving me gasping and shaking and desperate.
"No," I heard myself say. "Please—"
"No," Meric said calmly. "Not tonight."
The frustration was crushing. Physical. I'd never wanted something so badly in my entire life.
"This is the baseline," he continued, his voice clinical now. "Maximum arousal. Maximum frustration. You're going to sit with this feeling. Learn what it is to want something and not take it."
"I hate you," I gasped.
"I know." There was something almost warm in his voice. "That's acceptable. Anger is honest."
He removed the blindfold.
Light flooded in—dim as it was, it felt blinding. I blinked, disoriented, and found Meric standing beside the platform, watching me with those pale gray eyes that saw everything.
"We're done for tonight," he said.
He unfastened the cuffs, releasing my wrists one at a time. I sat up slowly, my body still trembling, hypersensitive.
"What happens now?" I asked.
"Now we talk about what you learned."
He guided me to a small seating area in the corner of the chamber—two chairs, a low table. Not clinical. Just space to process.
I sat, pulling my knees to my chest, trying to contain the residual arousal that wouldn't dissipate.
Meric took the other chair, leaning back slightly. "Tell me what you're feeling."
"Frustrated."
"Sexually?" He queried.
"Obviously."
"What else?" He pressed.
I forced myself to think past the physical sensation. "Angry. Exposed. Confused."
"Why confused?"
"Because I wanted it," I said quietly. "I wanted you to keep touching me. And I never want anything anymore."
"You want things," Meric corrected. "You just don't let yourself have them."
The distinction landed.
He was right.
"What did you learn tonight?" he asked.
I was still disoriented, but I took a shaky breath. "That I can't control my body's responses. That vulnerability doesn't kill me. That..." I paused. "That wanting something isn't the same as needing it."
"Good." He leaned forward slightly. "Your baseline is established. You respond to restraint, sensory deprivation, and delayed gratification exactly as predicted. The next sessions will build on that framework."
"When?" The question came out more desperate than I intended.
Something flickered across his face. "Forty-eight hours. Integration Period. You need time to process before we continue."
"I don't want time," I said. "I want—"
"I know what you want." His voice was gentle but firm. "And you'll get it. But not immediately. The Praxis requires patience."
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
He stood, and I realized the session was truly over.
"Vigdis will escort you back to the East Wing," he said. "Eat something. Rest. Write down your observations if that helps."
"Will you?" I asked before I could stop myself.
"Will I what?"
"Write down your observations," I asked.
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Yes. It's Protocol."
I wanted to ask what he would write. Whether it would be purely clinical, or if he'd felt even a fraction of what I had.
But I didn't.
Because I was terrified of the answer.
Vigdis was waiting at the top of the stairs. She took one look at me—flushed, shaking, visibly undone—and said nothing. Just walked beside me back through the Observation Wing, through the boundary doors, to Suite 3.
"You all right?" she asked at my door.
"I don't know."
She nodded. "That's normal after a first session. Eat. Shower. Sleep if you can."
"Forty-eight hours," I said. "That's two days."
"Yes."
"What am I supposed to do for two days?"
Vigdis's expression softened slightly. "Exist with what you learned. That's the work."
She left me alone.
I entered my suite and closed the door, leaning against it as my legs threatened to give out.
My body was still singing with frustrated arousal. My wrists bore faint red marks from the cuffs. And somewhere deep in my chest, something had cracked open—something I'd kept sealed for so long I'd forgotten it was there.
I wanted.
Not theoretically. Not intellectually.
I wanted Meric's hands on me again. Wanted his voice commanding me to be still. Wanted the unbearable, exquisite tension of The Edge.
And forty-eight hours felt like an eternity.
I walked to the window and pressed my forehead against the cold glass, watching the lights of the fjord blur through my tears.
This was what I'd paid two hundred thousand dollars for.
Not pleasure.
But the permission to finally, finally feel.